


The Very Last Thing

by mangacrack



Series: Queen of Doriath [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Amon Ereb, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Female Dior, Loss of Virginity, Male-Female Friendship, elvish politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-04-05 22:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19050145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack
Summary: As Princess of Doriath Dior there are few personal choices she can make without Thingol's intervention.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rogercat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rogercat/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing a Maedhros / female Dior story together with Rogercat. Truth is that I'm more responsible for world-building and the background stuff, jumping in only on occasions. Yet this particular idea never left me alone. - In order to avoid confusion Dior's and Nimloth's names have not been altered. Lets also pretend that there were several more decades between the Nirnaeth and the 2nd Kinslaying.

Maedhros recognizes the rider from afar, due to her great distress rather than wide open plain in front of him that makes it impossible to hide. Given the speed she is approaching, he gives signal to his warriors to let her through. Ossiriand is safer than East Beleriand ever was, but after retreating from Himring to Amon Ereb decades ago their people still feel on edge. It's not easy to forget, twice his people had to leave behind their homes. Tirion happened on their free will, but Himring was a place they fought, bled and died for. 

The sight of the young woman riding into his camp makes a great distraction from his insane hope that one day they would return. 

"Lady Dior, what ill news drive you to barge into my humble home?" Maedhros greets the Peredhel with a smile. He is still sitting in front of his tent, his temporary home while he and Maglor are driving the Orcs out that are trying to settle in the mountains. 

Dior slides of her horse and Maedhros is pleased to see that her skills have vastly improved since he has last seen her. The Sindar have never been a great folk of riders, but Beren Erchamion had the good sense to teach his only child how to defend herself. Though he would not be happy if he knew what she is using them for these days. 

"May they all die and have their entrails dug out with a dull spoon," curses the Sindar Princess in a low voice as she flops down beside him, allowing an approaching warrior to take her horse away. 

Maedhros raises an eyebrow, studying Dior and deduces that it is personal grief that brought the young woman to his doorstep today. Not gossip and news that they shared under the table ever since a curious child bullied a servant to take her to Amon Ereb to meet the ' _ Most Famous Fëanorian _ '. 

"Are you going to talk on your own or do I have to get you drunk first?" Maedhros wants to know. 

Another person might believe he is joking, but it is an honest question. Dior is young, but mature enough to decide on her own if she wants to get hammered. He has enabled such behaviours in the past, when she came running to Amon Ereb to escape her home in Tol Galen. From her descriptions and the few visits he knows how stifling it can be and if she is going to take risks, he rather wants Dior to do so where he can watch her. 

"No amount of wine is going to help the situation I am in. Besides I am not sure if I can stop if I start washing away my woes over this. Best not to pick up bad behaviours that are easily avoidable," Dior finally says, skipping any formal greeting as she hides her face in her hands with a loud groan. 

"Oh, that bad?" Maedhros reaches into the inside of his tent, where he keeps the ale. It is mostly for the taste, because it is good ale and the little alcohol in it will not affect them in the same manner it would a man. "Family matters I can presume?" 

He catches Dior's expression as she fills herself a cup and only then Maedhros notices how unhappy she looks. Way beyond tears and Dior is not a woman that cries often. She is strong and stubborn, a good blend between her father's bravery and her mother's practical thinking. 

That composure is crumbling. Her bright smile and her usual optimism is a mask. 

Maedhros tries to place the emotions Dior is displaying. It's not grief he is witnessing. Not the kind that comes with devastating losses and heart wrenching tragedy. No, that expression he has seen in the mirror before. In the faces of his own brothers, though it rarely gets this bad. 

Sacrifice. 

A renouncement of personal ambitions. 

Projects that never leave the paper, ideas that end up abandoned half finished, because there are more pressing needs. Regrets of visits not made and friendships not taken, because time and the war swallows it all. Dior's expression is one where the safety of many is more important than her own wishes, thoughts and desires. 

Maedhros knows that her next words are going to be. Her parents have passed away a few years ago, just like everyone expected. 

"My King wishes me to marry," Dior whispers and Maedhros is grateful that she does not hide her angry tears. "He has degreed that my duties to the Silvan Elves has been fulfilled and that I should move to Doriath to take my place at his side." 

The Noldor handle such matters differently, their women have always been too stubborn to be forced into such situations, but Maedhros had to judge such situations among the mixed families in his court often enough to get an idea what Dior is going through. Aside from disavowing all her ties to the line of Thingol, there is no escape. Especially not, if she wishes to bring change to the realm as she always dreamed she would. 

Maedhros fights down the urge to pity her. Dior deserves better than that. 

"Has he already chosen your future husband or do you get a say in it?" Maedhros voice drops low enough that the warriors around them cannot overhear. 

Thankfully Dior's visit are common enough and his followers are loyal. None of them will talk to anyone who can bring Dior in trouble. Officially, Thingol's granddaughter was never here. Officially, Dior and Maedhros have never met. 

Oropher is a good ally to have, someone with the good sense that Morgoth will not stop his attempts to conquer all Beleriand. That he has developed an intense dislike towards Elu Thingol in the last century helps Dior's situation immensely. 

Dior tries to suppress a hick-up and her hands bury themselves in the dark wet earth. 

"Nimloth Galathilion, grandson of my mother's cousin," Dior spats. "Prince Celeborn's nephew, in case you need future reference." 

"My condolences." 

Maedhros sighs. He understand Dior's anger. Thingol is not even trying to give Dior at least the illusion of a choice. Selecting a member of his own house for his granddaughter's husband is an insult. A way of showing the princess that she will never inherit the throne. Only the sons she delivers in pain and blood will matter. 

"Well, at least you don't have to get your hopes up. As soon as you make peace with yourself that your only choice is to marry a brat, who has never set a foot outside into the real world, you can free yourself of any emotional baggage," Maedhros finally advices her, when Dior refuses to say anything. 

"I know that. The more I make a fuss about Elu's desicion, the less leverage I have," she whimpers and hides her face by making herself as small as possible. "Yet I struggle to find the confidence I need in order win at least one battle against my grandfather. I know that I have no choice, but to marry Nimloth, he will send warriors after me if he has to..."

"...but knowing what is to come, does not necessarily make it easier to live through it," Maedhros finishes the sentence and mourns the fact that he doesn't not have the means to steal Dior away. She is has a good soul, a kind heart and some sense in her head. 

Sadly Maedhros cannot afford to go to war with Doriath, not with the current state their army is in and with Morgoth looming at the horizon. 

"I hate him. I hate this spoiled brat." Dior shudders and when she straightens her back, attempting to find back to her pride Maedhros' eyes fall to the way she draws her legs under body. 

Only then he realizes what the real issue is. 

Doriath does not allow their younglings to experiment before marriage. Any kind of sexual activity between an Elf and an Elleth will lead to a union, such is a believe among the Sindar. Outside of Thingol's realm, the inhabitants of Beleriand are not so short-sighted. Maedhros imagines that Dior never found an opportunity to fool around when she grew from a girl into a woman. 

"Are you afraid he will hurt you?" Maedhros' does his best to keep the anger out of his voice. 

He has seen the practice at work among the Edain, where girls, little children barely a decade old, are required to remain untouched to the day of their marriage. They are told nothing, are not taught what to expect or that sex is past time that can be extremely pleasurable. Instead they turn into bed slaves for their husbands, who believe it is their right to take what they want. 

Maedhros has never met Nimloth, but he has spent enough of his life among royalty that the young prince has about as much choice in this as Dior. With the difference that the so called accomplishment of getting to marry the princess and future Queen is a farce. With a wounded pride and having to maintain face in public, he could easily turn on Dior instead of becoming her ally. That is if being fed with a silver spoon has not corrupted his soul already. 

It took the Noldor centuries to weed out the entitled lordlings, rotten seeds they brought with them from Tirion and never realized how dark and sour some of their spirits had turned in the blessed land. 

Dior looks at Maedhros, vulnerable and yet full of determination. 

The suggestions she makes, comes less of a surprise as it should be. 

"Nimloth will learn to punish me for his failings. Outside of our marital bed I am more experienced than him already. Father and Mother saw to my education. But regarding procreation he has the advantage," Dior says. More cautious as if she suddenly remembers who she is talking to, she adds, "The girls in the inns say that pleasure is a skill you can learn. I have so little choice in my life. I came, because this will be the last one I can call truly my own." 

Despite her obvious nervousness Maedhros applauds her for being able to look him in the eyes. He does his best to shield his thoughts. A part of him still remembers the princess as half-grown child, yet she has matured into a woman and he's aware ... if he refuses, Dior will find someone else. For the Sindar Princess is determined not to spend the first time with her husband and the thought of Dior picking up the first willing Elf - or Man - for the task, brings forth a possessiveness that surprises him. 

"I feel honoured that you come to me and I give you my word that I will show you the pleasures of the body." Dior avoids her eyes at these words, the first sign of her inexperience. Maedhros finishes his sentence, "But I will insist that you wait a few days first, in case you wish to change your mind. We will not rut like animals in the woods and beforehand you will be taught anything else you need to know about your body." 

"Thank you, Lord Maedhros," Dior mumbles. 

The Fëanorian cannot help but think that her cautious excitement is alluring. So far his partner, male or female, have all been experienced and matured warriors. Often lonely souls, who lost their spouses in the war and did not mind sharing the bed with a warm body for a single night to keep the cold and the terrors away. 

Yet being the  _ first  _ and perhaps the only true lover Dior will ever have, awakens a ravenous hunger in him. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adult reallife is a bitch sometimes, mostly because ... you turn and it's been six weeks.

True to his word, Maedhros assigns the princess her own tent and an escort. At first Dior looks like as if she wants to protest, but the Fëanorian is firm on providing her safety. Over several days Dior learns that there is another reason for the arrangement for the Elleth shares her knowledge of female bodies freely. Only after the Elleth is done with her lesson, Maedhros' issues the invitation for a private meeting between himself and the Princess of Doriath.

Most of the warriors are asleep, for they tend to spend the nights hunting Orcs. It ensures that no one will disturb them. Not that any of Maedhros' captains would dare to gossip. They pretend that Dior is the daughter of a Sindar Lord from Círdan, who is tasked with trade negotiations.

It is refreshing and helps Dior to settle. Maedhros suspects she is going to need it.

What he would like to do is take her back to Amon Ereb. Show her the city and ease her into what she has asked him to do. But the period of their shared company is short, for either of them time is a precious currency. Dior is not a full-fledged member of Doriath's court yet, but her mortal parents taught her to make use of the days she is given.

Soon enough she will have to return. Maedhros tasks a scout to warn them in case a delegation from Doriath appears on the horizon, but it does not lessen the impact that they will only have his tent to make use of.

It is large enough, for Maedhros has long gotten sick of hitting his head against supporting bars and cords. His size also allows them a bed. It may be low, six inches above the ground, but the frame is sturdy and the furs comfortable. The advantage of camping in the wilderness of Ossiriand. Units of their army have been stationed along the Ramdal Mountains and along the Greater Gelion and it's branches Thalos and Legolin. The Khazad guard the Dwarf Road, securing the ford Sarn Athrad to ensure Morgoth would not cut off Nogrod and Belegost from East Beleriand. Himlad, Estolad and Thargelion are lost, though. For now.

Maedhros dares to hope they will recapture the lost territories. After being forced to retreat, he waited for the next hit, the next devastating loss, but it seems Morgoth is exhausting himself. The new borders are far from Angband and he has to stretch himself thin while they can organize south the Andram Mountains.

This morning he finally invites Dior into his humble abode. They are both used to opulence, but her appreciation is quickly drawn to the map he placed on the small table.

The princess studies it for a moment, before she turns towards him.

"You plan for the day Doriath is forced to retreat?" Her eyebrows come up to her hairline.

Dior's astonished expression makes her look young and a little fragile. While she inherited her height and stature from her grandfather Barahir, she also has hints of her mother's delicate appearance. A result of Melian working her magic to fit a growing baby into a body not made for child bearing.

"While I hope your kingdom will last another five thousand years, I have to prepare in advance in case Morgoth invades your borders," Maedhros answers.

He has nightmares about that scenario. The Bay of Balar belongs to the Teleri and Noldorin refugees. Oropher shook his head in disgust at the thought of harbouring the entire realm of Doriath in Taur-Im-Duinath.

Ossiriand provides the space the Iathrim would need. Maedhros tries not to think about what would need to happen, though, in order for them to accept the open sky above their heads.

It is very little he can do in case they loose Doriath, but Dior's eyes shine with gratitude. She steps closer, near enough that he has to pull her into an embrace.

Despite the leather that separates them, he can feel the warmth of her body against his.

"Please," she says and falls quiet. Beneath his hand on her shoulder Maedhros' feels how her pulse flutters. She is nervous, but not overly so. Like a soldier getting ready for his first battle, knowing himself to be well prepared.

It's not the first time he beds a virgin, there have been a few, people of either sex who sought his company. Often they were warriors seeking comfort or former prisoners seeking understanding. Maedhros never turned them away, not a single one. Moments of intimacy are rare when you are fighting an endless war against a dark god. But there is something about Dior that makes this occasion special.

Perhaps it's the sympathy he feels for her. Her status as princess in an uncomfortable situation which he can easily relate to.

Maedhros would be lying if he says this woman doesn't arouse him.

Rather than asking her if she is sure, Maedhros lets his hand wander while using his mutilated arm to hold the princess close. When his good hand touches her breasts, Dior's breath hitches, but she doesn't flinch away. Leaning into his touch, Dior fists her hand into his hair, threatens to slip through since its short and thin these days, but pushes herself up onto her toes to let their lips meet in a clumsy, biting kiss.

The touch in his own skin is searing and Dior nearly sobs, tries to push herself closer until there's not a slightest whit of space between them.

With the princess eager and unafraid, Maedhros treats her with honest desire. He cannot imagine that a child of Luthien will appreciate it labelled as breakable and in the past he came across Dior's aversion of maidens dancing barefoot under the starlight. If she had her way, Dior would rather become a warrior queen. He cannot give her that, Dior is not sworn to him, but he can gift one night of passion.

She looks beautiful, face flushed and her chest heaving, pointing out that her bosom is larger than that of a common Elleth. Who only show big sizes while they are breastfeeding.

"Yes," Dior pants. Her breasts push against the Fëanorian's chest as she tugs at Maedhros' clothing and attempts to undress him despite all the threads, belts and layers. "Lord Maedhros, I need you to..."

"Nelyafinwë will do just fine." Maedhros' voice is deep and comes out as a growl. He doesn't look to closely at the possible reasons, why he wants Dior this much. He drags her towards the bed nonetheless and allows himself the indecent gesture of taking a hold of the princess' ass.

She gasps and he swallows the sound with his mouth, letting Dior straddle his lap when he sits down. Her hands settle on his shoulders, pushing away his cloak as she kisses him again. Maedhros reminds himself not to be too rough, that this is a dance of leading the princess in the right direction and giving her enough control to be comfortable with the situation.

Though, with her dress riding up and her thighs getting warmer under his hands it's difficult to ignore his growing erection. It's been a while since he had company and Dior is a fine woman. He's thankful she hasn't showed signs of fear, not yet. Perhaps she does possess more confidence in herself, a heritage of her father, rather than hesitating at the edge like a full-blooded elleth would in her situation.

Maedhros reigns in his slipping self-control when Dior's hands roam his naked chest, tracing scars and slowly rubbing her crotch against his hips.

"Princess, I will have to tell you that it is uncouth teasing a lover like this," he growls.

Dior smiles, but her laughter dissolves when Maedhros' eyes become intense and his hands disappears beneath her skirt.

"Nelyafinwë, I - _oh_...," Dior moans as the Fëanorian rubs her through the small clothes. Her hips jerk into the touch, light and teasing, involuntary and she grows wet, soaks her undergarments as thick fingers brush over the nub.

Anticipation makes her tremble. She moans, "Get this off me. Please, I plan to make use of ..."

Her sentence derails as she brushes over the hardness in Lord Maedhros' pants. The Fëanorian huffs and almost tears her dress over her head the next moment. Dior admits, the sight alone of the most famous warrior slowly losing his composure because of _her_ doesn't leave her unaffected. If she had any doubts about her decisions, they are gone now.

Instead her thoughts revolve around how good it feels when he paws her naked breasts, pinching a nipple and lowering his mouth to suck at the other.

Dior _whines,_ pleasure and desire pounding through her until the ache between her legs becomes almost painful.

"Wait a moment," Maedhros interrupts them when Dior reaches to free the shaft straining in his trousers. "I want to appreciate this."

Before Dior can ask what the Fëanorian is talking about, the Elf grabs an object laying next to his bed. It's a hand, gleaming in a silver light and it flashes as the lower parts melts into a kind of liquid to form a connection with Lord Maedhros' hand. Then it becomes solid again and suddenly the Elf before her has two hands. One made out of flesh and another made from steel.

In any other situation she would have been interested how such thing might be possible, but now Dior cannot focus beyond the chill the hand leaves on her skin.

She bites her lip as it disappears between her legs and tears the small-clothes away. To the questioning gaze Dior responds with, "Do not treat me like a delicate flower. I get enough of that from my future husband."

Teeth close onto the side of her neck and Dior does three things at once. She tenses, sucks in a sharp breath and then whimpers at the flash of heat going through her body. Then there's a sharp, but not entirely unpleasant sting where Maedhros bit her and now he seems to be amused at her incoherent response as he licks over the mark he left behind.

"Like this?" he murmurs and delight in the shudder going through Dior as he licks over the bite again.

Dior kisses the Fëanorian again before losing her patience. Too long the bulge has been teasing her through Maedhros' pants. Still, she gasps when she finally pulls them down to free hard shaft. Her breath hitches a little as she cautiously takes the cock into her hand. It's stiff and thick and _big,_ enough that Dior barely can get all her fingers around it. She has seen them before, Elves prefer to bath naked and Tol Galen is enclosed by two river arms, but never like this.

"It want it inside me," Dior pants and forgets all worry as she runs her hand over the thick shaft.

It's a thrill to have Maedhros choke down a curse.

Dior considers the folly of simply sitting down on the Fëanorian's hard cock, but it _is_ the first time and her inexperience stalls her movements.

Maedhros is quicker, though. He flips them around, kicking off his pants until they are both naked, and soon he's pressed against her back. His impressive shaft slips between her legs and he's huge enough to give Dior the feeling of straddling _it_ instead of his lap.

"I appreciate how eager you are," he whispers into her ears. The steel hand closes around her right side, travelling up and down until it settles on toying with her breasts. The other hand wanders deeper, between her legs once again. Only this time they touch Dior's little nub only briefly before slipping two fingers inside her.

"Oh - yes," Dior breathes. It's not as if she hasn't done this before. Herself and a short-term nameless lover years ago, but Maedhros is quite different.

He's bigger, for once. His fingers reach deep inside her, teasing and pressing, until Dior is rocking down onto them. With a small moan, she reaches back to hold onto something. She finds rough, muscled skin and her nails leave scratch marks as Maedhros' drives her towards the edge.

"Ngh, no. Please." Doriath's princess protests as Maedhros pulls out his fingers. Too soon, leaving Dior empty and clenching around nothing.

The deep rumble, the laughter at her plight should be downright offending, but Dior gets distracted by the head of the Fëanorian's cock nudging against her entrance. It slips in, slides of, Maedhros moves to repeat the process until he has Dior writhing in his arms.

It's a little mean, but he needs her desperate enough that any kind of pain will be a secondary sensation. Instead of clamping down on her hips, Maedhros' arms reach around to knead the breasts. Dior arches into the touch as he pinches the nipples and the resulting moan is a sign that she barely notices him finally pushing inside.

"Easy, now," Maedhros' mumbles, distracting her with nimble fingers. It helps he's holding her tight, offering support without weighting her down.

Pleasure jolts through the princess as the _lovely_ cock shifts inside of her and Dior becomes aware of the Fëanorian's hipbones settling against her ass. Tension shudders out of her, as a keening moan while Dior slowly gets used to feeling of being so full.

"That's ... yes, I ...," she stutters as Maedhros slowly rocks back and forth. "Oh, that's good. Keep going."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is already half-way done. Let's see how long it gets and how much time I am going to need to reach the ending I have in mind.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they are done, Dior is boneless. She's lying on top of the Fëanorian, his cock buried inside her while half-dried fluids run down her legs. They are both messy and if Dior doesn't move anytime soon, she will be stuck to Maedhros from ear to ankle, but not even his semen glued to her thighs can force her to move. 

"You are satisfied?" the Fëanorian finally asks. 

Dior answers without opening her eyes, the princess says, "You should know the answer to that better than I do. I recall how you were the one slapping a hand over my mouth." 

"I cannot have you waking the entire camp." The chuckle vibrates through Maedhros' chest, the very same Dior still has her cheek pressed against. "Your demands and pleas were hardly meant for the public." 

Dior huffs. She hadn't minded the ruthless action. She had known from the beginning that Maedhros is strong and she choose him, because she wanted to know what passion felt like before Doriath can wrap the meaning of it. This way, she has something to remember, a sweet memory without regret. A source of strength when she will be forced to take Nimloth to bed. 

Pale, harmless Nimloth who will certainly not be able to pound her until her legs shake and her walk turns into the stumble of newborn fawn. 

Dior groans, sated but unhappy that her time with Maedhros will be over soon. Just like her freedom is coming to an end. As betrothed she won't have much opportunities to run around unsupervised. It is a blessing that her father's ideas of upbringing vastly differ from Elu Thingol's. 

Okay, maybe the hand running through her hair, massaging her head maybe also reason enough never to leave this bed again. It's nice to be treated like a woman, like an adult, and like a child or a political tool. For a moment she envisions staying. Taking a new name, hiding among Men and learning the trade of war from Maedhros' riders. She could even rebel, cut all ties with her birth family and let Thingol figure out the succession himself. 

What holds her back is the thought of the many, many innocents living in Doriath. The girdle protects them and they live in an illusion. When she spoke with mother about the encounters with the Fëanorians she met, Luthien was surprisingly kind. 

_'The refugees from Himlad knew what they were fighting. There are strong and full of courage. I saw people with ruined feet, because they walked barefoot all around Doriath to get to safety in Nargothrond. Had this happened to us, I am not sure our kingdom would have fared so well.'_

Luthien had looked sad, angry and helpless, furious at her own deteriorating health. 

"When will you head back?" Maedhros asks. The metal hand had vanished again, technically being a tool for battle and for private amusement. But the Fëanorian still looked attractive with one arm behind his head and letting his fingers trail over Dior's back with the other. 

"Soon," Dior sighs. She hides the mournful expression the best she can. "We don't need Doriath sending out a search party for me." 

Maedhros hums. He can probably read her mood just fine, but he's polite enough not to mention it. It's easier that he is treating this as a one time business transaction. A favour to the Princess of Doriath who will keep him in good memory once she gathers enough political power in a shut off kingdom to be of use. 

That or blackmail. Dior isn't naive, Maedhros has a war to worry about. 

Still, the prospect of remaining here until the sun rises again, is appealing. But remembering her mother's helpless expression as she realized that she will not be there to see the end of the war, is enough for Dior to dismiss the notion of doing something stupid. She has a duty to her people and with her grandfather's stubbornness it will need someone with an outside perspective and a bit of common sense to aide the citizens of Doriath. 

Dior quivers when she finally pulls away from Maedhros. The Fëanorian sends her an honest grin, a dirty look when his cock slips out of her and leaves a smear on her white thighs. 

"I will get dressed now, thank you for everything" she says. After a moment she adds quietly, "Not just for this night, which I am incredible grateful for, but also for the education your people provided. I hadn't known how much they keep from young maidens like myself." 

One afternoon at the side of Captain Salaman, a vicious horse woman, had been very enlightening. Dior is certain there most of the midwives in Doriath don't know half what Captain Salaman taught Dior about fertility, contraception and other useful facts she will treasure like a Silmaril. 

"My pleasure, dear princess," Maedhros says. Dior watches how the War General and unofficial King of the Noldor returns, settling on his face like a mask. "I hope we will see each other again one day." 

Her throat is tight. She can't make it work enough to give her farewell, not even for a joke of inviting him to her wedding, so Dior cleans up and puts her wrinkled dress back on. It  _hurts_ leaving behind the one person she can actually put her trust in. For there is no one in Doriath, who is on her side. No one who she can rely on. 

There must be something in her eyes, for Maedhros kisses her before helping her with her hair. 

Gently, he says, "Remember what I taught you. It will be hard, but you have the abilities and the confidence to make this work, Lady Dior." 

"Thank you, Nelyafinwë." It's the last time this name will leave her lips. It's the only concession to what happened this night. 

From this day on they will have to pretend they are strangers, people who met in passing and not a pair who have grown comfortable with each other's company. 

  
  


  
  


-

  
  


  
  


Dior leaves a few hours after dawn. She didn't lie about the impending journey to Doriath. Emissaries are waiting for her in Tol Galen. All she could haggle out of them was a few weeks with the excuse to say goodbye to a few friends and old teachers. Which she already has done, but this farewell feels different. 

It's quiet and solemn, possibly heartbreaking, but Dior is glad she is here. Looking Maedhros in the eye maybe the most difficult thing she has done so far when she mounts her horse, but in the times ahead it will be worth it. She will remember the grey eyes gazing in her soul. Quiet and supportive. So very unlike the dark hunger they held a few hours before when Nelyafinwë taught her how manipulate a lover with sex. 

Showed her control, how to make Nimloth tremble when the time comes. Advised her not to avoid the marital bed, that Nimloth should only be allowed to approach her chambers on Dior's terms. 

When Dior rides out of the camp, she notices how sore she is, but she bears it with a smile. It is a reminder what Nimloth will never be allowed to do. He has an ego she can play. Each time she gets on her knees for him, will cost him greatly. He will also learn to take what she gives, even if it involves tying his hands to bed and riding him into oblivion. 

  
  


_'Don't let him hold you down,' Maedhros said. He enforces the lesson by grabbing Dior's hair, making a fist as he guides her head down. His movements are stern, but gentle. He has her permission to teach her whatever she will need, but the size of his hard shaft alone shoved down her throat is enough to make her gag and her eyes water. Doesn't stop her from moaning, though. 'Do not let him use you like a slave. If he has demands, never lay down on your back. Think of it as a battle you have to get through.'_

_At least until she is has his loyalty._

_When she moans Maedhros' name as he puts her on all hours and shoves her face into the pillow, Dior realizes a coupling like this will be for the Fëanorian's eyes only. It's doubtful her cousin will ever earn her trust and her confidence._

  
  


Dior is glad she travels alone, for this way no one can see her blush. The memory alone causes heat to pool between her legs, though there's no way she will let anyone near there anytime soon. Maedhros  _used_ her, just as she demanded him to. But it served her well. Maedhros showed her how to enjoy pleasure and how to give it and back as he took her to unknown places between the stars. 

Half the time she hadn't been able to tell if she was riding pleasure or desperation, but it didn't matter anyway. 

What was important that he treated her like an equal, like a Queen and still managed to make her whimper like a tavern wench. 

  
  


\- 

  
  


Two years later Dior lost all hope that Nimloth could possible hope to meet her expectations. Her arrival in Doriath had been met with fanfare. Rare as such events are, Thingol sure knows how to celebrate them. Despite everyone's expectations, she keeps her mouth shut. Dior smiles, accepts the dresses handed to her and takes the additional lessons in dancing, singing and sewing. Her reaction puzzles most royal family members, since they all remember the brat from a few years ago. Her demeanour doesn't fit the tomboy they heard rumours about. 

If the confusion allows Dior to banish spies in form of handmaidens, pick out more reliable ones and argue successfully that continued exercise could only help her vitality, then it goes largely unnoticed. 

Galadriel is the only one who picks up her disdain regarding her betrothed. Since she is not popular with the royal family, but beloved by the court and the people of Doriath, Dior keeps their blooming friendship quiet. Grandfather doesn't want her to associate with a Noldo. The fact that Galadriel leaves for Nargothrond, defending her fallen brother's city rather than stay for the wedding only proves his point. 

  
  


\- 

  
  


She manages to wrangle a few more years out of Thingol. If the war outside their borders wouldn't be so worrying, Dior would consider drawing it out far longer. Since it takes time for her to get to know the ancient political landscape, she takes command of planning her wedding. Her long discussions with singers, musicians and craftsmen become famous and quickly getting a seat on her table is a boon high in demand . 

The King lets her, seeing it as giving Dior an outlet and a way to get in touch with the people of Doriath. He's not wrong, Dior makes time for the servants, the cooks, the seamstresses and the artists, though she disguises the private conversations by appearing demanding. Her reputation grows and tales resonate through the forest that the Princess is outspoken, critical but reasonable. She does not issue outrageous orders, like wanting thousand white doves as one court lady suggests. 

Dior  _does_ insist on rearranging the schedule, the program and the protocol and the Sindar quickly learn to obey her in that matter. 

In the privacy of her rooms Dior is pleased. She may not like the idea of parading through Doriath for her union and throwing such a grand feast, but it necessary. 

Thingol has given her free reign and her grandfather actually appears to be interested in her happiness, rather than treating the issue as granting a spoiled girl her wishes. He dotes on her and Dior sees aspects in her grandfather's character she likes and admires even. As old and narrow-minded as he happens to be, there is also wisdom hidden in his mind. Knowing that the war on their front step will not simply go away, Dior spends hours with her grandfather and listens. 

In comparison to Thingol spending endless afternoons with her betrothed is a chore. 

  
  


-

  
  


It might be mean of her, but Dior's assessment of Nimloth is that he's a dull, dim-witted creature. It's not his fault, he's a result of the isolation placed upon the realm. The lower classes are free to leave and settle in other Kingdoms, especially if they are falling into disfavour or do not find enough work to feed themselves. Maidens of higher status are trapped in Doriath unless they marry an outsider, but Dior discovers that competition with Luthien kept their minds sharp at least. 

They might be vicious vultures, but Dior still prefers their company over the dense bored boys that shoot up around her like weed. 

As youngest male member of the royal house, Nimloth has so far been never given any kind of responsibility or task of importance. 

Queen Melian phrases it more politely, but in the end Dior invents errands and labour to keep her intended busy. On most days she still wants to scream into her pillow after being forced to share his company. 

"Perhaps I can make use of him in the marital bed," Dior murmurs under his breath one evening. She resists the urge to drown her anger in wine. 

The thought of gagging Nimloth after she ties him to the bedposts as Maedhros suggested cheers her up for a while. When she realizes that she doesn't have to let him go free as soon as she is done with him, Dior gifts Nimloth an honest smile. 

  
  


-

  
  


The wedding is a success. Dior smiles the entire day, bright and radiant. The reason is her growing foundation in the court, the attention Thingol gives her and not just as the granddaughter he dotes on. Perhaps he never meant to, but he takes her suggestions seriously. Soon, she spends more time with the King than with anyone else. Nimloth's antics mellow after that. Either he's smart enough not to ruin his chance for prestige or he has the piercing look Dior has given him as warning. 

It pleases Dior that her reputation paints her as more commanding than Luthien ever was. Not that her mother was weak or malleable, Luthien was more like water, seeking her own way and avoiding hard blows and direct confrontations. With a twinge of grief Dior realizes it's her father's heritage that is blooming inside her. Kind, passionate Beren who lived a decade in the wild and thus learned to rely on himself instead of being blinded by the expectations of society. 

"Are you well, child?" Thingol asks her as the official celebrations come to an end. 

He may not realize the meaning that he has Dior sitting on his right, between him and his wife. Nimloth is close, but the focus has shifted to Dior's welcome and reconfirmed status as Princess of Doriath. It hadn't been her intention, but Dior isn't unhappy that everyone seems to have forgotten the union, the marriage itself as soon as ceremony was done. 

It had been mostly for show anyway. The important part is yet to come and her relief is immense that she will leave everyone speaking about her beauty, her presence and her appearance. Instead having the Ladies murmur under her breath if the half-breed will get pregnant this very night. 

"I regret my parents are not here today," Dior says quietly. It's not a lie. Beren and Luthien passed away peacefully, years ago. 

She blinks away a tear. It's hard, having lost them and on days like this she misses them terribly. 

Thingol gently places a hand on hers. "I feel with you, granddaughter. I make no secret out of it that I have conflicted feelings about your father, but I do not dispute he has loved Luthien as much as I did." 

Dior struggles to keep her composure. There are too many people watching and she cannot be seen as fragile or overwhelmed. This is a state affair with many delegates present, invited from all over Beleriand and everyone besides the Noldor seems to be in attendance. 

"Thank you grandfather. I am glad that I have you." She looks at Thingol, gazes into his grey old eyes and sees a lot of herself reflected back at her. "Sometimes I have the feeling, you are the only one who understands." 

She discovered Elu Thingol to be a complex character, like an ancient tree with roots that reach far deeper than initially suspected. 

  
  


  
  


-

  
  


The further the evening proceeds, the more Dior feels herself trapped in a strange dream. One of those that's not a vision, just colourful batches of impression. Per tradition, the union is to happen during the night so the couple may wake up together the next morning. 

The last celebrations are so far away the forest around her is eerie silent as she takes a bath. Her new husband probably does the same. They have been led her, separately. Dior is glad, her grandfather insisted on it. It'd have been impossible for her to appear like an excited maiden, eager to slip away with her beloved for the greatest of all nights. But between Thingol's paranoia and Dior's desire for privacy, guards and servants will make sure they remain undisturbed. Draw-back, she isn't able to run away from this either. The household members are not close enough to overhear, but ready to respond to any of the couples wishes. 

As Dior slips out of the cooling water, she dries herself off and slips into a see-through silken bathrobe. She will keep it simple and the affair meaningful, but brief. 

She banishes the image of Nelyafinwë's large erect cock from mind, thick and heavy as it laid against the Fëanorian Lord's stomach. He had looked confident and charming, even in a war tent with only linen providing them a thin layer of privacy. Despite their attempts to be discreet, it's  _likely_ someone overheard them. 

The thought excites her far more than Nimloth appearance. Others might call him beautiful, silver hair that falls down his back as he waits in the bedchamber by a window as Dior enters. For her, Nimloth bears the likeness of rotten vegetables, left forgotten in the back of the pantry. 

_I'm not here for my own amusement,_ Dior forces herself to remember as she studies her husband. 

She does him the honour of not putting up a fake smile as she lets her bathrobe slide down to the floor. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is going to be the last, _I swear_.


	4. Chapter 4

The world is in turmoil. When she meets Maedhros again, Dior has forgotten how to live without the fear and the anxiety pooling in her gut. They are false friends, keeping her awake and worrying at unfavourable times. Only when her forces finally join the Fëanorian Army they evaporate like mist in the morning sun. 

"It's good to see you," she says and bows her head in respect. They are in a war camp and no one in this part of the world will ever be able to repay Lord Maedhros the debt they owe this family. "On behalf of all of Doriath, I thank you for freeing Beleriand from a great evil." 

She dismounts from her horse, feeling uncomfortable towering above him. The Fëanorian smiles. With his hair close-cropped on the right side of his head, while the remaining bangs fall over his shoulders in an unravelling braid, the sight makes her stomach flutter. The dented armour, the sword on his back and the knives strapped to his thighs do little to put her off, though she is aware of his reputation. In the last hundred years, she followed his path closely, always hoping to join the fight against Morgoth one day. 

"It's not over yet. We will need your skill soon enough, Lady Dior," Maedhros says and invites her inside. From the looks of it, the Fëanorian Army has been here long enough to erect houses of stone. Countless tents are surrounding them, but Dior can see their uses, especially when you have talented craftsmen at hand. 

"I'd like to compare the reports of our scouts. Together we might figure out how much of Bauglir's forces remain." Dior's attention returns to the main reason they are here. Long enough they struggled to unite Beleriand's forces against Morgoth after the Black Enemy drove the Fëanorians into the Blue Mountains. 

Only a desperate charge and her grandfather finally coming to his senses after seeing thousands of Orcs invading East Beleriand, brought them victory. It saddened her that it wasn't Maedhros she met on the battlefield when their two armies closed in on the black hordes from two sides. But it's not as if she had the time to be disappointed. Not even her grandfather had protested, when she brought Celegorm to Doriath to heal. The commander was among the many of the wounded slowly recuperating. 

The King of Doriath had officially invited him, being left with no choice after Melian faded away, too tired to keep the girdle's upright anymore. According to her grandfather, the Queen is not dead but weakened beyond any kind of swift recovery. 

With Morgoth greatly weakened, if not entirely gone, Dior can breathe easier and finally got the permission to act as ambassador. With a great host of Noldor currently living in Doriath, it's necessary. Celegorm does his best, despite his state and Dior is in part here to fulfil his wish to verify his brothers are still alive. 

The reports are unreliable. Rumours say there is no current High King among the Noldor. With the exhaustion in Maedhros' eyes, Dior hesitates to ask. She met King Fingon once, supplying his people with food and tools after a harsh winter. The Elf had been kind to her, understanding of her position and accepted her authority above her husband's words. 

"Would you like to recover, my Lady?" Maedhros prods her through the camp, officially showing her entourage their place to stay. His curious eyes which keep trailing over her cloth, never leaving her for long, speak of a deeper meaning. 

Dior shivers despite her heavy cloak and the leather armour she wears. 

It is an invitation. 

"I'd be pleased, Lord Maedhros. A respite before we are forced to dive back into political affair will be welcome." She exchanges a few words with Beren and Mablung, ordering them to settle in and prepare for a longer stay beyond the Blue Mountains then her grandfather intended. 

At least, he never voiced a specific order when he expects her back. Given the tales about her determination and the results of her subtle planning ensuring Dior usually gets her way in the end, it should be a surprise to no one if their delegation extends their stay. 

"If you wish for privacy, I'd suggest my tent. It's spacious enough. The few houses we erected are reserved to protect books and papers from the weather." Maedhros' smile is teasing her, not openly hinting at the last time they shared a tent. The reminder is enough for Dior's breath to catch slightly. 

Her answer gets stuck in her throat, so she nods in agreement. Her marriage is a loveless trade agreement. Nimloth remains an adversary, the brief periods in which they work together evaporate in the light of his jealousy and his attempts to her into a devout wife. 

Compared to the warrior standing before her, Nimloth possesses the sharpness of a blade of grass. 

The easy confidence with which Maedhros leads her into his tent is enough to turn her mind into white noise. The first cup of wine she downs in a dozen heartbeats, clinging to the cup as she is forced to watch how Maedhros slips out of his armour. 

"Do you wear it often?" Dior finds a topic to talk about that does not seem too forced. The silver hand replacing the one he lost is one of true interest to her. During her last meeting, Dior had cared little about it, too wrapped in the new sensations. Only afterwards she wondered about the mechanism behind it. 

She witnessed herself how the metal bends and melts when Maedhros attaches it to his stump. 

"With all the battles lately, I had no other choice." Maedhros rubs his wrist, displaying the section where flesh blends with metal. "Unfortunately it puts a strain on the nerve endings when I wear it too long." 

"I am surprised you still have any feeling left in your lower arm." Dior cannot help the sound of her voice nor how she fixates on the patch of naked skin. 

Being denied sweet pleasure since the beginning of her marriage and facing the man responsible for the best night she ever experienced, reawakens a forgotten hunger. In decades of war and manoeuvring Nimloth fantasizing about other lovers had been futile. Pursuing someone outside of her marriage she deemed too risky. There had been no one worth the effort. In the end, she rather denied Nimloth than seeking temporary release. 

Her husband never managed to turn the shared nights even remotely passable. 

Maedhros steps closer, closing the entrance of his tents. He towers above Dior, forcing the Princess to put her head back to keep looking at him. She couldn't possibly avert her eyes, not even when his silver hand settled on her hips. His real thumb brushed over her neck and Dior squeezed her legs together. 

Such a violent reaction to any man should be a cause of shame. There had been a few who threw her off, even within the confines of Doriath. 

But Maedhros Fëanorian remained an exception. 

"You would be surprised what I can feel with this hand." The red-haired warrior murmurs as warm dry lips brush over her own. "Curufin created a marvellous wonder. Thanks to him I can feel temperatures, pressure and even liquids." 

Dior realizes that she's panting. Her hands are buried in Maedhros' tunic. His appearance is far from the great warrior he shed like his cloak. He resembles more the lover was forced to leave behind in favour of a miserable marriage. 

It goes beyond her comprehension of how a single touch can erase a century, bringing her back to the point when she first asked him to attend her needs. When Maedhros takes her silence as permission, he hauls her closer, pressing their bodies together and the lust in his eyes matches her own. 

"Tell me, princess. Will I find you wet and willing, should my new hand dive under your skirts?" He asks, drawing a whimper from her. 

A similar action from Nimloth Dior'd have punished severely, going so far as cutting his hand off if that what it would have taken for him to learn his lesson. 

Ironic how she permits the very thing in Maedhros' presence, clinging to his shoulders as she finally pulls him down for a kiss. It's heated, full of hungry passion and the exact thing she wanted to do since first laying eyes on him a few hours ago. 

"Why don't come and find out?" Dior moans more than she is capable of speaking normally. Gone is Thingol's heiress, leaving only a wanton woman with needs. 

  
  


\- 

  
  


For the first time, they barely undress. Maedhros pulls her to the floor, onto the rough carpet separating beaten dirt from their bodies. 

Dior straddles his lap and rides him, shoving her underclothes aside after having to let the Fëanorian steal her cries with his mouth. The fingers had been cold, but clever. Far better than anything she experienced in the last century. Yet they do not satisfy her for long. Rather, it reminds her how good sex can be. 

"I have thought about you," Maedhros says, nipping at her neck as his hands settle on her hips. 

He rocks upwards, holding her with a strength that has her writhing, trapped between his iron grip and the hard flesh of his shaft inside her. 

"Please." Dior's voice is wretched, hating how stifling and confining her dress is. Her hands roam over Maedhros' chest, but they are trembling too much to find the skin beneath it. The lovely cock moves inside her, spreading her wider than Nimloth ever did, leaving her thighs and Maedhros' pants drenched. "Nelyafinwë,  _please,_ it's been so long..." 

It's the sound of his name from her lips that drives Maedhros on. With one swift movement, possible through thousands of survived battles, he flips them around and barely waits until Dior has her legs wrapped around his waist. 

The Princess of Doriath digs her hands into his shoulder blades as the Fëanorian stops his gentle thrusting and torments her with long jabs, staggering and overwhelming for Dior since they leave her keening and arching into his voracious embrace. 

  
  


-

  
  


Over the following weeks, Dior barely gets an idea of how her bed looks like. Most nights she turns to Maedhros', though they don't often spend their time together with actual sleeping. Some nights, yes. When they are too exhausted or worn out to do anything but hold each other. Yet more often than not they tug at each other's tunic the moment they have privacy. 

"What do your brothers say about Fëanor's eldest sleeping with a married woman?" Dior asks one day. 

Maedhros' hand between her thighs twitches. In the last minutes, he has done little but caresses her, aside from watching how his seed dribble out of Dior's wet folds. 

"Half of them do not care enough to voice their opinion which is a statement in its way," Maedhros says and rubs the bruises that weren't there before Dior dragged him to bed. "The other half believes us married already." 

Dior sighs into the pillow, only partly because the unsatiable fingers distract her from cooling down from her high. She has avoided thinking about Nimloth in weeks. No doubt rumours will reach his ears sooner or later and she wishes to spare herself the hassle that will follow. 

The Fëanorian Host had a brief moment of confusion when they saw how well their Lord and the Princess of Doriath got along. Many drew their conclusions upon realizing that they knew each other already, shared a friendship of sorts. Well enough to turn most of the immediate problems into plans and orders backed by two Kingdoms and their allies. 

"What worries are running through your head, love?" Maedhros hums. His slick-covered fingers pull her hip closer until his crotch is pressed against her cheeks. 

Dior groans, torn between mulling over the political situation and giving into sweet temptation. 

"What am I supposed to do with my useless husband once he turns up here, making a ruckus?" She can see it, plain and clear in her head. Nimloth will be insufferable. As much as she would like to lean back and watch how that flimsy twig challenge Maedhros Fëanorian, there is still the question what to do about her grandfather "I have children. Aside from sending Nimloth on a patrol, he will never return from, I have no idea how to keep them from becoming hostages for his political ploys." 

Behind her, Maedhros stiffens. Dior's mind screeches and hopes she just didn't ruin everything. Doriath kept the births quiet, afraid the news could turn Morgoth attention to the kingdom. 

After a pause, Maedhros asks, "Where are they right now? Are they well protected?" 

His strong embrace gives her confidence. Dior twists around until she's facing her lover. She gazes into his grey eyes, touches his scared chest with her hand and admits she doesn't want to lose this. 

"With Oropher, far down in the south. Turin acts as their bodyguard and teacher." Dior turns her gaze away. "I am not the best mother. With the twins I tried, I spend time with them and had a hand in their raising for a few years, before the atmosphere at court became toxic. As far as I know, Elurin and Elured are happy among the Nandor and King Oropher treats them well." 

Elwing, though. Dior hasn't seen her daughter since Nimloth offered to accompany their little child on the long journey. At this point, her daughter might not even remember her, given how young she was when they were separated. 

"Bring them here. I have brothers and warriors to spare that can act as escort," Maedhros croons. His fingers leave a wet trail on her skin and despite the blanket, Dior feels her nipples harden. Of course, this doesn't go unnoticed. 

She still tries to keep her wits together, though it's likely Maedhros already has a plan in mind. It's just like him, possessive bastard that he is, to have figured out a solution which keeps everyone happy. 

"I ... don't deny that I long to see the faces of my children again," Dior answers, but her response is short-breathed already. 

Maedhros' shaft is nudging against her rim, slipping in a little before pulling back out. 

Dior rocks back, attempting to impale herself on Nelyafinwë. This kind of love is recent and a discovery. Nimloth never touched her there and Dior likes the though Maedhros being the only one to ever have her, mounting her from behind. It leaves her shuddering, one hand tearing at the sheets already. 

The knowledge of how much space he will take up inside her turns her damp already. 

"Will you think about it?" Maedhros asks. His smile tells her that he knows he has won already. Dior has little problems making her displeasure known. Since she does not voice it know, he rather focuses on spreading her legs, his large hand grabbing the back of her knee while the other kneads her breasts. 

Dior gasps, rutting against the teasing intrusion that keeps slipping instead of pushing in. 

The hand on her breasts fits perfectly. After her pregnancy with the twins, they grew even larger and refused to settle down again. An ugliness in the eyes of her husband. Sindar woman are flat-chested unless they are nursing. Her tall frame, her wide hips and muscles from hours of training and riding don't fit into the picture at all. 

"Yes," Dior hisses and bursts with pleasure when Maedhros finally shows mercy. 

His presence inside her is nearly painful, but she aches for it. 

Dior digs into the pillow under her head and Maedhros moves, drawing sounds of pleasure from her mouth. 

  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. Apparently I have to write the threesome with Nimloth included some other time. All attempts of including him were in vain, so Dior and Maedhros get their happy ending.


End file.
